


Who Looks Inside, Awakes

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean/Female Character, M/M, Rape/Non-con - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:12:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8248400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: Dean finds himself the victim of spirit which drains life by inducing erotic nightmares. There's only one solution, but he doesn't like it. He doesn't like it at all...





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is set somewhere during Season 2, with possible spoilers up until then.  
> The Mora is based on Slavic lore, but I have taken liberties with the details. Not much plot here - just a good, old fashioned f*ck or die scenario ;)

 

 

 

Dean feels a steady pressure on his chest as his lungs try to drag in enough soupy air - slow and deep - to keep him from panicking. He's blind and deaf, his limbs weighted, any thoughts of struggling beyond him now.

But he knows the fear and crushing pain won't last, so he waits for the shift, and sure enough it comes, gradual enough that he doesn't realise he can inhale freely until he gasps at the first pleasurable touch.

He can't see her but she's beautiful. He knows she's dark although he's not sure how. Obsidian hair and alabaster skin, she smells like the sticky insides of lillies and rain on warm asphalt. She doesn't make a sound but he hears her anyway. She's inside in his mind, driving him slowly out of it. When she finally sinks down onto his swollen shaft, she's slippery wet and feverish heat. And it's good – better than he can fathom – until the pleasure comes full circle to meet suffering again.

It doesn't take long for him to weaken. The atmosphere becomes thin, and each breath is hard won. There's barely enough oxygen to keep his starved lungs from collapsing but there's no terror this time. Just an incessant ache, a compulsion stronger than anything he's ever felt before. He needs release more than he needs to breathe, so he chases it hard, trying to buck his hips with the last vestiges of his strength.

Dean feels an agonising sense of loss as his shoulders are lifted, head snapping back, and a rush of air, cold and scouring, floods his gullet.

“Dean!”

He hears that. Actually hears it. Sam's voice is urgent but it sounds odd, like he's under water.

“Dean! Wake up!”

He becomes aware of himself and opens his eyes to see Sam's face inches from his own. His gaze is darting over his brother's features and his brow is knitted in concern. Sam's close enough for Dean to see the pores of his skin, the way one colour bleeds into another to give his irises their sea green hue.

“Sam?” he croaks. “What the fuck, dude?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

Dean lets Sam gently lower his head back to the pillow, and one giant hand comes up to swipe over his forehead.

“You're soaked. I think you're running a fever.”

“It wasn't a nightmare, Sam,” Dean says, a little irritated now that his brother pulled him out just before he reached what promised to be the best quiescent orgasm of his life. His mouth must have quirked because Sam's glare roves down to where a threadbare sheet is covering his modesty and after a barely perceptible widening of the eyes, he backs off to sit on his own bed.

“Well, whatever it was, it's the third night in a row and you sounded like you were dying.”

“Just le _petit_ mort, Sammy.”

Dean winks and Sam presses his lips into a tight line.

“Oh, so now you speak French? It's not funny, Dean. You stopped breathing. Maybe you have, like, sleep apnea or something. You should probably lay off the grog for a while.”

“Sleep _what_? OK, look – I'm sorry I woke you. And I'm sorry that even unconscious I get laid more than you. But would you stop overreacting. I have a little fever which is giving me...vivid dreams. But I feel fine and this -” Dean reaches over to the nightstand and snatches up a half empty quart of cheap whiskey, “- is medicinal.”

He uncaps the bottle and takes a swig just to make a point.

Sam huffs and lays down, pulling the bedclothes up around him and turning his back on his brother.

 

The next night, Dean's lips are blue by the time Sam snaps him out of it, and he's not so sure it's just a little fever induced delirium anymore.

 

“I am serious, man,” Sam says shaking his head. “You're not going back to sleep until we figure out what's going on.”

“Sleep deprivation? I'm pretty sure that's considered torture in the free world -”

“Dean!”

“OK, OK!” Dean holds his hands up in supplication. “So where do we start?”

Sam licks his lips and picks at the frayed cuff of his old, plaid shirt. He squirms in the rickety chair and nods towards the kitchenette.

“Well, I suggest we make coffee. Lots of coffee. And then...” he pauses just long enough to draw attention to his discomfort, “I um...I guess you need to tell me all about the dreams.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“You little pervert.”

It earns him a sigh.

“Trust me, Dean. I don't wanna go poking around in your sordid psyche, but we need to figure out what's going on. You're lucky you weren't alone. If I'd been a minute later...I think you would have suffocated, man.”

There's real fear in Sam's voice, and Dean relents as he heaps coffee grinds into the percolator.

“Alright. Well, there's this woman,” he sets out two chipped mugs. “but I can't see her. I kinda know what she looks like though. I mean, I could pick her out of a line up, but I'm not sure how. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin.”

“OK,” Sam nods and boots up his laptop. “What else?”

“There's a smell. She kinda smells sweet like...flowers. Funeral flowers. Lillies. That's it.”

“Maybe some kind of spirit then?”

“Maybe. But you couldn't see her, right? And the room was sealed.”

“You sure about that?”

“Absolutely, Sam. I checked the salt lines myself before we turned in.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“She, uh, she speaks but I can't hear her. It's like she's in my head, my thoughts, y'know?”

“And what does she say?”

Dean busies himself with the coffee pot.

“Uh, just stuff. I mean...dirty stuff. What she's gonna do to me.” Dean pauses. “You want details?”

Sam purses his lips and shakes his head definitely.

“No. No – it's fine. So a succubus maybe?”

“I don't know, Sammy. I mean we've seen a succubus before. This is all, like, happening in my mind. My dreams anyway.”

“But the shortness of breath? What causes that?”

The smell of brewing coffee starts to permeate the air as Dean turns back to his brother.

“I feel a pressure on my chest. It's as if...I'm drowning even though there's no water. And paralysis. I can't move much when she's...y'know.”

Sam taps away at the keys and, for a few moments, that and the coffee dripping are the only noises in the room. Finally he looks up.

“Huh.” he says, eyes skimming the screen.

“What?”

“I might have something.”

“Well, share with the class, Sam.”

“There's a creature in Slavic lore. A Mora.”

“Mora? Never heard of it.”

“The Mora is a dark spirit that visits men in dreams. It will often use the form of a beautiful woman to torment them with desire and steal their life force. That makes perfect sense, Dean.”

Dean ponders this for a minute before pouring the coffee.

“So like a succubus, then?”

“Well, yeah. But the Mora isn't tangible. That would explain why the salt doesn't keep it out. It works through dreams.”

“Like a hotter, hornier Freddy Krueger?”

Sam can't help a small laugh at that.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“OK, so suppose I've picked up one of these...Mora. How do we kill it?”

“I don't know. It doesn't mention anything here. I'ma give Bobby a call. See if he's ever heard of anything like this.”

“Do we have to involve Bobby? I mean...it's kind of awkward.”

“Dean. We're stabbing in the dark here. The sooner we get something concrete, the sooner you can sleep without the danger of being smothered by -”

“Hot, horny Freddy Krueger?”

“Right. No sense leaving our biggest stone unturned 'cos you're worried Bobby's gonna find out about your wet dreams.”

“Dude!”

Sam laughs and accepts the coffee Dean's proffering.

 

They've both had a sense of humour failure by the time they reach Bobby's. They've been awake for twenty six hours straight, and Dean almost ran the Impala off the road more than once as his eyelids began to droop despite the cool air blasting his face through the open window and his music turned up to eleven.

Bobby looks grave as he lets them in.

“Good to see you too,” Dean snarks as he shoulders his way by.

“Boys,” Bobby nods. “I'm glad you're here, but I'm afraid you won't like what I have to say.”

“Bobby, it's six am and we've been up since three am yesterday. Pretty much anything you say is gonna get a tough audience right now,” Sam says, stifling a yawn.

Bobby leads them into the kitchen and takes the kettle off the stove.

“Coffee?”

Both boys nod wearily and take a seat at the table while Bobby spoons instant coffee into mugs.

“So I've never dealt with a Mora personally, but I made a few phone calls.”

“And?” presses Dean.

“Well, the bad news is – you can't kill 'em.”

“What?” Sam says. “Why not?”

“It's not like a regular spirit. These things are old. Nomadic. They're not tied to a body or a place. They're dream walkers. Literally nightmares. Dean could have picked it up anywhere. You can't salt and burn something you can't find.”

“But there must be a way. Can't I get the bitch in my dream? Trap her somehow?”

Sam snorts.

“Stop with the Nightmare On Elm Street analogy already, Dean. It's just a movie.”

“Well I haven't heard any suggestions from you yet, genius.”

“Boys!” Bobby barks. “You didn't let me get to the good news.”

He places two mugs in front of the brothers.

“Go on,” Sam says, cowed.

“There's a way to stop it. But it's...complicated.”

Dean rubs at his eyes. They feel gritty.

“Isn't it always? Complicated how?”

“These things feed on desire. They tend to latch onto people who...give off strong signals.”

Sam splutters around his mouthful of coffee. Dean rounds on him.

“What's so funny, Sam?”

“Figures.”

“What's that s'pose to mean?”

“It means you put it about, Dean.”

“Are you calling me a slut, Sam?”

Bobby slams his own mug down on the table hard enough for some of the contents to slop over the rim.

“Will you two eejits pipe down and let me finish? Unless you _wanna_ get choked in your sleep.”

“Sorry, Bobby,” Sam says as Dean glowers at him. “Go on.”

“If you can shift the victim's focus, the Mora loses interest and moves on.”

Dean frowns.

“I don't understand.”

Bobby looks suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation.

“Well, the Mora is all about sex. It preys on the willing. The lustful. It feeds on your life force. All of it. Breath, water, blood...other stuff.”

“Oh God!” Dean shuts his eyes as Bobby's meaning sinks in.

“Sam told me...well he didn't think you'd...so that's a good thing. It means her hold over you isn't full strength yet.”

Dean swallows audibly and wills his eyes open.

“I can't believe we're having this conversation.” He sighs and stares into his mug, wishing he could crawl in and hide under its murky depths. “What do I have to do?”

“You need to displace her with something stronger than the lust she can fuel in you. Well, it all sounds a bit fairytale when you say it out loud -”

“Spit it out, Bobby!”

Dean's voice is harsher than he intended but if the tiredness doesn't kill him soon, embarrassment might.

“You have to give it up for true love.”

Dean repeats the words over in his head a few times, trying to find the meaning there. But his fatigued brain just keeps unhelpfully supplying snippets from Disney movies. Princesses and frogs and glass coffins and posioned apples. Damn, he needs to sleep.

“Dean!” Sam is nudging him now. “You get it, right? You have to sleep with someone you love - someone who loves you – before this thing comes back.”

 

Sam paces the worn carpet of the motel room, not daring to sit down in case sleep claims him. He hears the door handle rattle and Dean storms in, tossing his cell phone on one of the twin beds,

“Well?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head and scrubs his hand over his face.

“Cassie left town a few months back. Didn't leave a forwarding address and the number I have for her's disconnected.”

“Shit. I'm sorry, man.”

Dean slumps down on the bed nearest the door and exhales deeply.

“Hey. It was a long shot anyway. I mean, me and her. It was kinda over before it took off. No guarantee it was the real deal. I'm not exactly an expert when it comes to affairs of the heart.”

Sam looks down at the floor and chews his lip. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he finds the courage to speak.

“Look, Dean...I...I think I have an idea.”

Dean looks up.

“Why do I get the feeling I'm not gonna like it, Sammy?”

Sam sighs and goes to sit on the other bed, facing his brother. Dean sees steely determination there and a sick feeling settles in the pit of his stomach as he realises he knows exactly what Sam is gearing up to.

“No, Sam.”

“Dean!”

“I said no!”

“We're out of options here, Dean. We can either go speed dating and pray Ms. Right comes along before you die of exhaustion, or -”

“No way.”

“Dean – it's me or Bobby!”

That startles Dean. It sounds absurd, but it's true. He can count the people he loves – the people who love him – on half a hand. He finds himself laughing, and before he knows it, he's doubled up and helpless with it.

“It wasn't supposed to be funny, Dean. You're sleep deprived. We both are. You're hysterical.”

Dean sobers, his laughter dying as quickly as it came on.

“Yeah, well I guess I'm hallucinating as well, 'cos I could've sworn my little brother just suggested we fuck each other.”

“It's the only way.”

“It ain't happening, Sam.”

Sam stands and paces again, rolling his head from side to side to ease the tense ache in his neck.

“It wouldn't be the worst thing we've done.”

Dean balks at that.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We hunt and kill things. People get hurt. We lie and cheat and steal. We've seen things that would break most people. There's so much evil out there, Dean and I'm not gonna lose you because your fucked up sense of morality or pride, or whatever the hell it is, won't let you take what you need.”

“Sam -”

“No, Dean. I'm right and you know it. You're all I've got. And I'm all you've got. No one loves you as much as I do.” He pauses and adds quietly, “No one could.”

Dean flounders. Sam's words are unravelling him and his hands are trembling. He looks up at Sam and sees tears starting in his eyes. Dean never has been very good at saying 'no' to his little brother when he gets like this. He knows he should say something but he can't for the life of him figure out what that something should be. Doesn't trust his voice not to break. And then Sam is speaking again.

“I nearly lost you twice. Dad gave his life for you.”

That hits Dean like a sucker punch.

“That's low, Sam,” he rasps. His mouth is bone dry.

“No – it's the truth. He died to keep you here. With me. And I won't let his death count for nothing because some long-dead bitch decides she wants to make a meal outta you. I won't let that happen, Dean. Whatever it takes.”

Dean's eyes close slowly and he lets his head drop to his chest. He knows in his heart he's about to give in, but he wants to prolong this moment – the moment before they plummet headlong into something they may never be able to get back from – even if it's just so he can look back later and tell himself he held out for as long as he could. He may even believe it one day.

“OK.”

That one little word doesn't seem like it should be enough to set light to this particular touchpaper.

And then Sam is next to him, smiling. The sonofbitch is actually smiling, as if Dean just told him he could drive today, or have the last slice of pizza.

“It'll be alright, Dean. I promise.”

Dean's jaw tics.

“So, what did Bobby say we had...I mean, how far do we have to...”

“All the way,” Sam says quickly. They sit for long seconds, avoiding each other's eyes. Sam swallows and says in a small voice,

“I know it's gonna hurt some. But it's OK, Dean. You just do what you have to and don't worry about me, OK?”

Dean thinks he might throw up. He rises and stalks over to his duffle in the corner, rummages and comes up with a new bottle of whiskey. He unscrews the cap with a crack and takes a long pull before walking back to the bed, sitting and offering it to Sam. Sam takes it with a small, tight smile and drinks. Dean watches his throat work and makes a decision.

“I think I should...I mean I don't want you to...”

Sam looks at him quizzically.

“Jesus, don't make me say it, Sammy!”

Sam looks panicked and shrugs slightly. Dean takes a deep breath.

“If we're doing this...I mean it's my mess. And I'm still the big brother. You do me.”

Sam's eyes go wide and he chokes a little on the residual heat of the liquor.

“Are you sure? I mean I -”

“Yeah, Sam. I'm sure. As sure as I can be of anything in this incredibly fucked up situation.”

“OK. So I guess we should...”

Dean snatches back the bottle and takes another slug. Sam watches him, blinking, and then slowly begins to unbutton his shirt.

Dean sits in a stupour for a while longer, only rousing when Sam stands and lets his shirt fall to the floor. Dean looks up at the familiar sight of his brother's sculpted torso – broad shoulders, narrow waist, tightly bunched abs, a plethora of scars Dean could pinpoint with his eyes closed, having been the one who stitched most of them. It's a sight he's seen nearly every day for the past two years, only now it's so completely different. Like seeing for the first time.

Dean's never allowed himself to look at another man with this kind of appraising gaze before. He's felt the weight of it on him. Flirted for money or information, but he's never been with another guy. He considers himself open minded, and he'd be lying if he said he's never wondered what it would be like. But he gets women. Women are simple. They are soft and open and he knows exactly what it takes to get what he wants.

Men are different. Men are fathers and brothers and hunters. Men can get under your skin. And Sam is the best man he knows.

Sam watches Dean watching him.

“Dean? You OK?”

Dean doesn't answer, just puts the whiskey on the bedside cabinet, shrugs off his jacket and throws it on the other bed. He stands, facing Sam, and pulls his own tee over his head, bundling it in his hands and discarding it. He toes off his shoes, and Sam follows suit. Dean gets a hand on his own buckle and Sam stops him.

“Wait!”

Relief courses through his bloodstream. Sam's going to back out. But then he's on the other side of the room, searching through his own duffel and coming up with a smaller, paper bag.

“We'll probably need this,” he says shyly, gently tossing the bag to Dean.

Dean opens the bag with a sense of nauseating dread, and peers in. Lubricant. Sam has bought lubricant.

He's not sure whether he said that out loud, or whether it's Sam's freaky powers at work when he says,

“I bought it when we stopped for gas. Just in case. Contigency plan.”

Dean clears his throat.

“So you were thinking about this all the way here?” His voice in incredulous.

Sam just nods.

Dean takes out the tube and puts it on the table, next to the liquor. A thought strikes him.

“Condom?” he asks feebly, hating the sound of his own voice.

Sam does this funny little half smile.

“Dude! Seriously? I've been elbow deep in your blood on a pretty much weekly basis these past couple of years. I'm fairly sure we don't need to worry about that just now.”

Dean smiles despite himself. The kid has a point. He starts to work his buckle open and starts when he feels Sam's large, warm hand cover his.

“Let me.”

Dean feel lightheaded.

“Sam -”

“Let me.”

Sam pushes him lightly back toward the bed. The backs of his knees hit the edge, and he folds down.

“Lie back and try to relax.”

Dean would honestly laugh if he wasn't trying so hard not to cry. But he goes down anyway.

Sam's deft fingers make short work of his fly, and then he's tugging at Dean's jeans and Dean is lifting his hips. Sam drops his pants on the floor and runs a hand softly down his arm, his chest, over his quivering belly. It's almost like the touch he uses when he's checking Dean over for injury and also nothing like it at all. It's timid, tentative and undeniably pleasurable.

Sam shucks his own jeans and lies down next to Dean, so that they are barely touching. Arm to arm, feet brushing slightly, wearing nothing but their thin cotton underwear. Sam's hand is moving over his skin again, lighting him up and making him quake. Sam's finger scratches feather-light up and down the inside of his forearm, tracing the veins there, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Sam's leg bends and hooks over his own, bringing Sam's crotch to nestle against his hip. Then long fingers are touching his jaw, turning his head, and his brother's mouth gently presses against his. Dean closes his eyes and lets Sam's soft, dry lips move against his. It's oddly comforting, and Dean brings up a hand to stroke his brother's shaggy hair. He feels Sam smile against his lips and his warm hand lands on Dean's hip, squeezing slightly before moving around and spreading flat against his back, pulling him snuggly against his brother.

They are touching all along the length of their bodies now. Dean feels Sam getting hard against his hip and it's so weird, but his own cock starts to fill in response. Sam's mouth opens against his, and Dean feels his tongue start to flick teasingly at his lower lip. He tells himself it's OK to get aroused. It's just his body's reaction to the stimulation. But then Sam moans, low and dirty, and Dean breaks their kiss, his stomach lurching.

“Sam! Stop!”

But Sam's hand stays pressed to his back, holding him in place.

“What? What's wrong?”

Dean lets an ugly little sneer ease over his features.

“What's wrong? You've got to be kidding me. Everything is wrong, Sam. This is unbelievably fucked up.”

He tries to get up, but Sam is up on top of him, lightning quick, pinning him to the matress.

“Look, I get it, Dean. It's freaky. This whole thing is messed up. But it needs to happen, so just relax and try to enjoy it. Please.”

“Enjoy it?” Dean's voice is almost a squeak. “We're not supposed to enjoy it!”

Sam's expression is wounded.

“Please, Dean. Just stay with me here. I can't lose you. I can't.”

He drops his head to Dean's shoulder, breathing harshly, probably trying not to cry, and Dean feels like the worst kind of lowlife. He's painfully aware that his treacherous dick is laying thick and heavy along his brother's swollen length. His pelvis tilts minutely, and just that fractional movement is enough to make him twitch in his shorts.

He closes his eyes and nudges Sam's forehead with his own.

“It's alright, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere. C'mere.”

They kiss again, and this time, Sam licks into his mouth, slow and deep.

“That's it,” he murmurs into Dean's mouth. “Let go. Stop thinking and just go with it.”

Dean moans, and Sam plunders his mouth, sucking on his lips, slipping his tongue in and out of his brother's mouth in shallow, fucking motion. He's making tiny thrusts of his hips at the same time, rubbing their now fully hard cocks together. They kiss sloppily for a while and by the time Sam lets up, Dean can feel a small damp patch on the front of his underwear.

Sam looks unsure of himself suddenly.

“Um, we have to uh...get you ready.”

Dean feels a cold shiver work it's way through him.

“OK then. What do you want me to...”

“It's fine,” Sam says, reaching for the tube of lubricant. “Just relax and I'll...I have to use my fingers to -”

“Christ, Sam! I don't wanna know. Just do it.”

Sam makes a face like he's been kicked and Dean feels his dick start to wilt. He turns his head to look at the wall as Sam works his boxers off, hips jerking on reflex when Sam's hand brushes his cock. Sam wraps a hand around it and gives a few experimental strokes which get him half hard again.

Dean hears the plastic cap from the tube hit the table and slick noises as Sam spreads some of the clear gel on his hands. Using both of them, Sam starts to jack Dean off, his slippery hands gliding deliciously up and down his rapidly engorging dick, pausing every so often to tease and massage his balls.

Dean groans and keeps his face turned away. Sam is good at this. If he can ignore the sheer size of the fists currently (and expertly) working him off, he can lose himself in the sensation - pretend he's in some seedy massage parlour, about to get a happy ending from a busty blonde in a tight fitting uniform.

But then he feels a finger circling his asshole and the daydream evaporates. This is all too real.

“Sam!” he says, almost a threat, as he tries to scoot up and away from the unfamiliar touch.

“We need to get this over with,” Sam says simply. “Try to relax.”

Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath, and closes his eyes, letting his limbs go heavy. Sam's finger is back, cool and slick, skirting over his hole, and this time it's a little tickly and not unpleasant.

“That's it, Dean. Just relax.”

“Can you shut up, Sam. I'm trying to pretend you're a particularly nasty waitress I once met in Toledo.”

Sam chuckles softly, and slips his finger just inside his brother.

Dean freezes and takes a few deep breaths, trying to adjust to the strangeness of having something inserted somewhere he's always thought of as being strictly exit only. It's not painful exactly – just weird. But then he thinks how big Sam's fingertip feels and how small it is compared to what he suspects Sam is wielding down below and his heart skips a beat.

Sam presses in with an easy glide, until his finger is completely buried inside his brother. Dean is breathing hard, clearly battling against every instinct he has to let this happen. He stays still for a few seconds, then slowly starts to drag out again.

Dean moans as he feels his brother's finger slide out and then push back in, faster this time.

“OK?” Sam whispers.

“Yeah, it's just...just weird, man.”

“I know,” Sam assures him.

He adds more gel to his finger on the next out stroke and pushes back in, easier this time.

Dean's lost his erection, the incongruity of his brother fingering him open and the alien sensation conspiring to keep him soft, but he supposes that's all as it should be. He doesn't need to be hard for this. Doesn't want to be. He just hopes Sam can keep it up when the time comes.

But the feel of Sam's tongue licking a wet stripe along his flaccid cock makes his eyes fly open and his upper body bolt up.

“Sam! What're you doing?”

Sam looks up at him from under his bangs, his face flushed.

“Distracting you,” he answers simply before taking Dean in his mouth.

Dean's mouth does a reasonable impression of a banked guppy as Sam starts to suck him, and finally, defeated, he sinks back to the bed as his dick responds in the only way it knows how.

“Jesus, Sammy. This is fucked up.”

Sam pulls off long enough to say,

“Shhhh!”

And then he sets to work in earnest, sucking his brother off carefully while his finger continues to fuck him steadily.

Dean concentrates on the purely physical experience. Sam is pressing something inside him which makes him feel a little like he has to pee, and a lot turned on. His mouth is soft and wet, suckling gently, keeping him hard but not giving enough pressure to get him off. He's vaguely aware that he rocking on Sam's knuckles, only stopping when Sam catches him with his teeth occasionally or pushes in too fast.

Sam's mouth comes off his dick and his voice drags Dean out of his pleasure haze.

“Ready for more?”

Dean had almost forgotten why they were here, but now he remembers, he spasms nervously around Sam's finger and nods his head quickly.

Sam withdraws his finger and slicks it up again, coating his middle finger too. This time when he pushes in, it burns, and Dean grits his teeth and hisses.

“'M sorry,” Sam soothes, smoothing his free hand over Dean's stomach. “It'll get better.” He leans down and laps at the head of his brothers cock before swallowing him down again.

Sure enough, within a couple of minutes, Dean's ass has decided it rather likes two fingers inside it, and he's grinding down on Sam's hand again, and making little, aborted thrusts into his mouth.

Sam doesn't ask this time, just pulls out, lubes and presses three fingers inside his brother. Dean gasps and says,

“Jesus fuck!”

But he takes it anyway and, before long, he's tapping Sam's head.

“OK, OK, Sammy. If we're gonna do this...let's just...”

Sam pulls off his cock, and looks up lips shiny with spit and cheeks rosy. His eyes look glazed, and it occurs to Dean that he might actually be into this. But he can't consider that now, and he files it away in a mental compartment labelled 'should probably never think about again.'

Sam stands and rids himself of his boxers. And yep – he's still mostly hard. And huge. Dean's never actually studied his brother's junk at full salute before, and while he's always been abstractly aware that Sam is big, it's never seemed quite so _relevant_ before.

Sam's brow furrows as he starts to grease up his cock and Dean's heart hammers so hard against his ribs that he's sure Sam must be able to hear it. He feels stretched out and wet. Suddenly death by asphyxiation seems preferable to the shame of being reamed by his younger sibling.

Sam clears his thoat ( _his recently fucked throat_ – Dean's mind screams), and Dean looks up to see him standing at the foot of the bed. The tips of his bangs are plastered to his face with sweat. His skin is honey coloured and his eyes dark. He's fully hard and glistening, and Dean knows right down to his bones that his brother is beautiful.

“Ready?” Sam asks in a barely there voice, and Dean gives a tiny, tight nod of his head and spreads for Sam to crawl between his legs. Sam looms over him, gets right up in his face and places a small kiss on Dean's lips.

Dean turns his head away and says,

“Maybe it'll go easier if I – y'know...get on all fours?”

As soon as the words are out he feels prickly heat bloom across his face and neck. Sam's eyes are boring holes in him.

“No,” Sam says, sounding determined. “I wanna see your face.” Dean looks alarmed. “So I can see if I'm hurting you,” he adds quickly.

Dean blinks slowly – the only permission he's about to give – and Sam shifts his weight, kneeling, lifting Dean's hips and slotting himself under his brother, so that Dean's braced on Sam's thighs with his ass tilted up.

Sam lines up the head of his cock with Dean's hole and very slowly starts to push forward.

“Fuck!” Dean spits and bucks up, pushing Sam off target.

“Sorrysorrysorry!” Sam says, hands running all over Dean's shoulders and chest, trying to calm him.

“It's like being stabbed with a frickin' hot poker, Sam. You and your stupidly big dick. I can't do this!”

“Yes you can,” Sam promises, and he leans over to the bedside cabinet and grabs the bottle. He takes a swig, then leans down, pressing his lips to Dean's.

Dean feels Sam's mouth pry his own open, and the liquid fire of the whiskey trickles onto his tongue and down his throat. He swallows and sucks the taste off Sam's tongue, and his brother takes another shot and repeats.

Sam's slippery hand is working his cock again, making him moan. He fucks Sam's fist and drinks from his lips. Sam takes one more mouthful before replacing the bottle, and this time, as he plunders Dean's mouth, he twists his hand over Dean's cockhead and pushes the blunt tip of his dick past the tight ring of muscle.

Dean makes a strangled cry and Sam stills, letting him adjust to the initial breach. He continues to kiss him and Dean lets him. If Sam is lapping at his mouth, at least he's not looking at him with those soulful, searching eyes.

After a moment, Sam starts to sink slowly, so slowly, in and Dean hardly notices he is moving until he feels Sam's balls snug up against his butt. He feels so full and stretched. There's a slightly uncomfortable pressure on his bladder. He momentarily worries about losing control and pissing all over Sam. Or worse. But the longer they stay still, tongues sliding lazily around each other's mouths, the more Dean starts to welcome the fullness.

Sam breaks the kiss to look at Dean, and Dean can only hold his eyes for a few seconds before he has to look away. Sam's hips pull back – excruciatingly slow, and Dean moans low and long.

Sam thrusts forward, eyes widening in surprise.

“God, you're tight,” he breathes, treacle dark and sweet, and then “Dean!”

Dean's heard his brother say his name more times than he's heard anything in his life. He's heard it said with a hundred different inflections, and he's heard it mean a hundred different things. But he's never heard it like this. This time it's loaded with pure yearning, and Dean finds himself on a whole new level of self-loathing as the realisation makes a pulse of precome spill over his brother's hand.

“It's OK, Dean,” Sam says, too much in his headspace again, as he starts to fuck him steadily. “It's OK to like it. It feels good.”

Dean chokes out a sob and says,

“Shut up, Sam. Just...just shut _up_.”

Sam smiles sadly and his thrusts pick up pace as he bends in for another kiss, soft and wet.

Dean slams his eyes closed. He tries to recall some of his favourite encounters – scenes he replays when he needs to get off quickly. A lapdance from a stripper in Santa Fe, a bartender in Omaha who'd been wearing crotchless panties under her jeans.

But Sam is panting and moaning into his mouth. Sam's hair is brushing his sweaty face. Sam's cock is ploughing him, pressing places deep inside him which feel better than anything he's ever known. Sam's considerable weight is holding him down. Sam's taste is on his tongue, his smell – more familiar to him than any other – is in his nostrils. Sam is inside him and all around him. Sam, Sam, Sammy.

He doesn't realise he's chanting his name at first, but then Sam fixes him with this devestated look and says,

“Yeah, Dean. I'm here. Love you so much. Do anything for you. Anything.”

Sam settles his weight on his brother, taking his wrists in his hands and pushing them up against the headboard, entwining their fingers and rolling his hips so that his taut stomach rubs Dean's leaking cock with every stroke.

Dean knows Sam is trying to make it good for him, and the trouble is – he's succeeding. He hates him for it. He wishes the pain would come back. Wishes he could stop wanting it.

Then Sam's hips are pistoning erratically and he's babbling,

“Gonna come, Dean. 'M so close. God, Dean. Wanna make you come. Want you to come so bad.”

And Dean does. His back arches and his belly tightens, and his ass clenches around his brother's thick cock. And it's like dying. It's so wrong and so good. He despises himself for it. His cock twitches wildly as he spurts between them, Sam's motion smearing his release all over their stomachs with sticky, moist sounds.

Sam's mouth falls open in a silent scream and his features screw up tight before Dean feels him swell impossibly wider, stretching his sensitive rim a fraction more. His last few thrusts are loose and wet, Sam's come easing the way. His little brother slumps on top of him, open mouth hot and muggy against the side of his throat. They are plastered together with sweat and lube and come, and Dean feels it ooze out of him and run down to seep into the bedspread.

But he's so tired, so exhausted in every possible way that he can't bring himself move. Couldn't even if Sam's Sasquatch frame wasn't crushing him to the mattress.

“So...” Sam says close in his ear. “that just happened.”

He sounds drunk and Dean can't help but smile.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

He feels oddly numb and – although he knows there's probably a major freak out coming when he wakes – peaceful.

“ _You do me_? Smooth, Dean. Very smooth.”

“Jesus, shut your cakehole.”

Sam laughs and Dean feels it buzz through him.

“You know, we're gonna have to talk about this at this at some point?” Sam says.

Dean ponders that for a second.

“Or not,” he says.

“Dean!”

“OK, OK,” he concedes. “But sleep first. I could sleep for a hundred years. At least.”

“Nuh-uh,” Sam's head shakes against his shoulder. “Prince Charming broke your curse. Just regular sleeps for you from now on.”

Dean's arm is threatening pins and needles, so he wriggles to get comfortable, wrinkles his nose at the cooling mess under him.

“Dude, I think it's too soon to joke about this. Your dick is still up my ass.”

Sam laughs again, and Dean is unnerved by how like _them_ this is. He's still here. Sam's still here. He can feel his brother's chest rise and fall against his own.

“You gonna get off me?” No reply. “Sam? _Sam_?”

“I can't hear you. I'm asleep.”

Dean resigns himself to waking up sticky and sore.

“Bitch.”

“Love you too, jerk.”

 

 

 


End file.
